fiamma71: To flesh out what you said in your review, I think that Guy naturally feels very protective of the women he cares for. He defended Marian at every turn, even when she turned out to be the Night Watchman, and he defends Ajsa, even though she's difficult. It may be because he genuinely cares about the woman, but I think pride also comes into play. It's a medieval man's job to protect women, and Guy is very concerned with appearing masculine and strong. So, while the scene is indeed sweet, for me it also highlights Gisborne's sense of pride.

That's in stark contrast with his permission to allow Ajsa to see him emotionally and physically wounded. For all his alpha maleness, I think Guy enjoys being tended to by Ajsa, partly because it's still so novel for him (to be tended to by anyone at all). I really do believe that he just wants to appreciate someone and to be appreciated in return. Ajsa gives him that, which is, I think, the most important aspect of their relationship. They are both self-sufficient people (Guy's been on his own since adolescence, and Ajsa has taken care of herself since her father's death), yet they nevertheless need each other in very different ways. So there's a mutual respect blossoming, which will be the foundation of their love.

Sorry for the rambling. I love these two so much. :) Thank you, as always, for your review, dear heart!

williewildcat: No, Ajsa certainly does not bend to anyone's will, unless it suits her, haha. But, thanks to Guy, she's slowly learning that it's okay to compromise when there exists a mutual respect (which is growing between her and Guy). And Guy is learning patience (a lot of it...) and that it's okay to be vulnerable sometimes. I think this chapter is the perfect example of all of that you said in your review. Your input, as always, is most appreciated! *hugs*

partygirl98: Thank you! :)

Note: The chicken stew with dumplings that Ajsa cooks for Guy is a medieval version of the Hungarian paprikás csirke, which includes tomatoes, peppers, and paprika. However, since all three of those ingredients are indigenous only to the New World, pre-1492 Europe would not have had them yet. Additionally, just a quick reminder that Orosháza is Ajsa's hometown (homevillage?).

Enjoy this obnoxiously long chapter! :D

Chapter 16: Salvation and Damnation

The flame of the candles flickered as the night breeze wafted in through the open windows, casting sinuous shapes on the wall. Locksley Manor was quiet. Mary and the other servants had long gone home, leaving only Ajsa to keep vigil over the large house. She was seated upon a cushioned chair by one of the windows, a needle moving dexterously between her fingers. With Guy's penchant for fighting, it seemed like she was always mending some article of clothing or another. The tears had become so numerous on one of his old tunics that Ajsa had been forced to sew him a new one-black, of course, for he would wear no other color. It suited him, suited his fair skin and light eyes and dark-as-night hair. It also contributed to the villagers' opinion that he was the Devil's right hand man, though Ajsa disagreed. Gisborne was no saint, but she had known wickeder men than him.

Finishing a seam, Ajsa sighed and abandoned the half-completed shirt in her lap. Sewing was a skill that most women, high- and low-born alike, learned during girlhood. She'd always been particularly good at it, and that ability had apparently transferred to healing, as well. Once they'd seen her proficiency with sutures, the people in her village had sought her out, and she soon became more popular than the male physicians. Their ineffective and often dangerous treatments fell out of favor in the face of Ajsa's herbs and stitches. Limbs were saved from infection and subsequent amputation, while further weakening of the body was prevented when she rejected leeches and bloodletting. But, she acknowledged, leeches did have their uses. When a three-year-old boy had suffered a venomous snake bite on his foot, she had secured a tourniquet on his lower calf to slow the progression of the venom and had used leeches on the wound to remove the tainted blood. The boy had survived, and Ajsa had become even more respected as a healer.

The physicians, however, were less pleased with her. Many of them were monks and friars, who announced that, because she eschewed the religious texts on healing, she was channeling Satan's power and was therefore a witch. Two days later, by authority of the local priest, Ajsa was captured by soldiers and sentenced to death by burning at the stake. The only thing that had saved her was Thomas' timely arrival in the region.

She snorted at the idea that the slaver had in fact been her salvation. But she had lost her freedom that day, if not her life, and she'd yet to reclaim it. Picking up the shirt again, she began sewing another seam, only to be interrupted as the door flew open.

Guy limped inside, bearing a grimace with each step.

"You are injured," Ajsa remarked, startled.

She hurriedly set down the tunic and closed the door behind him. He collapsed onto the nearest chair, while she knelt in front of him to inspect the damage. His left thigh had been pierced with a blade and was bleeding at a steady rate. She plucked the dagger from his sword belt and cut into his breeches.

"Oi, watch it!" he snapped.

Ajsa rolled her eyes. "I must see the injury if I am to mend it." She ripped a large hole into the fabric of his trousers. "And then I must sew you a new pair of breeches."

Now that her view of the puncture was unobstructed, she rushed into the kitchen to fetch clean cloths, bandages, and a bowl of hot water. She dabbed at the wound carefully and thoroughly, then felt the edges of the puncture. Her fingers stroked confidently over his thigh, her brows knit in concentration. Had the circumstances been different, he might have derived more pleasure from her touch, but as it was, he grunted in pain when she pressed a cloth to his wound to staunch the bleeding.

"It is deep but thankfully neither fatal nor long," said Ajsa, readying the needle by holding it above the candle's flame. During her years as her village's healer, she'd noticed that wounds healed better if the needle was subjected to heat beforehand, though she did not know why. "Nevertheless, I shall need to stitch it. Remain very still, Sir Guy, or else I may hurt you more than necessary."

"I'm a soldier," retorted Gisborne. "I have endured worse injuries than this. Now get on with it, before I bleed out."

Ajsa obliged him. The needle pierced his flesh a little harder than expected, causing him to wince.

"Oh dear, my hand must have slipped," she said innocently. "I did not hurt you, did I?"

Gisborne glared at her but remained silent. Ajsa worked quickly and efficiently after that, setting neat stitches to stop the bleeding and to hold the edges of the wound together. She wrapped a clean, white bandage around his thigh, knotting it gingerly but tightly enough to secure it. He was surprised by how little pain he had felt during the procedure.

"There, all finished," Ajsa announced. "I will change the dressing every day and remove the stitches in five days."

She collected the soiled equipment and stood, but Gisborne grabbed her sleeve. She turned to him again, waiting. His expression, which had been stormy since his return, softened measurably.

"The people in your village were fortunate to have a healer such as you."

She nodded. "Yes, they were, but now they are once again at the mercy of those pious butchers."

He pushed himself up and followed her into the kitchen to watch her boil more water. Pouring it into a bucket, she began to wash the needle, bowl, and blood-soaked cloths. Steam rose off the water's surface, but Ajsa submerged her hands without so much as a flinch. Gisborne couldn't help but marvel at that.

"I do not think most Christian men should be in authority," she explained. "They are superstitious and ignorant, and they believe that smearing cow dung into a wound will heal it."

"But you disagree," he stated, leaning against the door frame. "And I've no doubt you were outspoken in your protests." Ajsa shot him a pointed glance as she tidied the kitchen. He crossed his arms over his chest and tracked her movements with an amused gaze. "No wonder the Christian men didn't like you."

She scoffed. "The opinions of those putrid, old toads mattered little to me. I was too busy tending to the festering wounds their holy physicians caused." Ajsa fixed him with a tight, humorless smile. "Do you know what dung does to a wound? It inflames the flesh and makes it weep blood and pus. If the person is fortunate, the injury may still heal with proper treatment. But if the flesh turns black with rot, only removal of the affected area can save the person."

Gisborne straightened, growing serious. The mirthless smile had vanished from her face, and a haunted look had settled into her eyes, as though she were seeing the necrotic wounds all over again.

"I have witnessed amputations of limbs in battle," he said quietly, "but they were not the result of botched treatments."

"Not usually, no," she agreed. "The carnage I witnessed in the Holy Land was terrible, but it was easier to watch than the damage the church physicians inflicted. Babies died because monks thought that bleeding sick infants would cure them. Feverish children died because priests prayed over their bodies, instead of tending to them. So many lives shortened or lost because of Christian medicine."

"So you are a witch."

Ajsa glanced at him sharply, angrily.

"I am not," she spat. "I merely believe that Christianity, or any religion, is dangerous when employed in ways it was never meant to be."

"Are you a Christian, then?"

"By birth, yes. In belief, no," she replied. "But I acknowledge the existence of a supreme creator."

Guy stared at her, troubled though not entirely surprised by her admission. He had known she harbored ill feelings towards Christianity-and he couldn't even blame her for it-, but if anyone in Nottingham learned of her sentiments, she would be branded a witch for a second time.

"You must keep these thoughts to yourself, Ajsa, do you understand?" he urged her.

"I am not simple, Sir Guy," she said scathingly. "I know that this time, there will not be a Thomas to pay off my executioners."

He frowned at that. "Do you truly believe I would allow you to burn? I have protected you thus far, yet you doubt that I shall continue to do so."

"I believe that you would try to protect me," she replied. "But if the Sheriff decrees my death, you could not stop him."

"The Sheriff will not decree your death," he assured her, "because I am now Sheriff."

Aja's mouth fell open. "You killed Vaisey."

"Yes," Gisborne said, with a smug smirk.

"How?"

"I stabbed him with the same dagger he'd plunged into my thigh."

"You were foolish to pull out that dagger," she scolded him. "If it had severed something important, you would have bled out before reaching Locksley Manor."

He arched an eyebrow. "Is that concern I detect, Ajsa?"

"For myself only," she said bluntly. "As you have often reminded me, I would be little more than a whore without your protection, and you cannot protect me if you are dead."

A few months ago, Gisborne might have reacted angrily to her words. But now he merely went to her and tilted up her chin to meet his gaze. Her breath faltered slightly at the soft blue of his normally hard eyes.

"Is that it, Ajsa? Do you only care about me because I can protect you?" She did not respond, but neither did she wrench away from his gentle hold. "When I ask that you sleep beside me, you acquiesce. When I get taken in the middle of the night, you stay awake until I return. When I show you my demons, you give me the strength to fight them." He paused, allowing his thumb to stroke her neck. "If your motives were entirely selfish, you would not do these things."

"I...do not despise you," she said stiffly, and Gisborne smirked. "Let that be enough for now."

"Very well, Ajsa." He stepped back, wincing as his thigh muscle twinged. "Thank you for tending my injury."

She nodded. "Do not overexert yourself, for I would rather not have to redo your sutures."

"Yes, healer," he said, his lips twitching in amusement. She sighed in exasperation, then walked into her small quarters next to the kitchen. Guy's voice trailed behind her. "Aren't you going to congratulate me for killing Vaisey and becoming the new Sheriff?"

The only reply he received was the bang of the door as she shut it. He chuckled, blew out the candles in the main room, and scaled the stairs to his own bedchamber. As he stripped and lay down on the bed, he felt the absence of her body next to his.

#

Gisborne shoved his damp hair out of his face, feeling the sweat drip down his back. Perhaps black was not the best color to wear in the height of summer, but even the villagers, who wore flimsier clothing, were sweating. There had been hot summers before, but never like this one. The heat was oppressive, relentlessly beating down on Nottingham, like waves beat upon the shore.

Water was scarce. Locksley's well had dried up, though the manor had no shortage of the cool, clear liquid. Ajsa-damn her or bless her-had taken to doling out buckets of water to the families that most needed them. Guy noted that she was partial to children. Although he did not mimic her charity, as long as the villagers didn't turn riotous to obtain their share, he would allow her this good deed. Heaven knew he could do with a little penance.

When Prince John visited, however, Gisborne strictly forbade her to interact with the townsfolk. He had to show the prince that he governed with a firm hand, and that included his household servants, as well. Ajsa had, of course, railed against him at first, but she understood that more than Guy's position was at stake, should either one of them evoke Prince John's displeasure. So she accepted his commands with only a modicum of defiance.

"Ah, Gisborne," said the prince, as he walked through the door. "It is so much cooler in here. What a marvelous idea to cover the open windows with dark fabric to keep the sunlight out." He felt one of the curtains between his fingers and reveled in the breeze that ruffled his hair. "Now, the last time I was here, I had my eye on a rather fetching, little serving girl. Where is she?"

Guy barely restrained the snarl that leapt into his throat.

"She is ill, Sire," he replied brusquely.

During the prince's first visit to Locksley Manor, Ajsa had been the one to refill his goblet with wine. Prince John had taken a liking to her, because she'd been forced to endure his flirtations for the rest of the night. Had Gisborne known that she would catch Prince John's attention, he would have kept her out of sight, as he did now. But he'd believed that Isabella held his interest.

And evidently Isabella did, too, if her sudden glare was any indication.

Prince John frowned. "What a pity." Mary poured him a cup of water, and he brightened. "So, now that you're Sheriff, how do you intend to deal with Robin Hood?"

Isabella excused herself and went outside. Rounding the back of the house, she came across Ajsa chucking a bucket of onion peel and cucumber skins into the neighbor's pig pen.

"Ajsa," she called out softly, and the woman turned to face her. "My brother said you are ill, yet he still makes you work?"

There was no hint of suspicion in her question, but Ajsa treaded carefully nonetheless. If Isabella were loyal to Prince John, she might tell him of Gisborne's lie. On the other hand, Isabella had been mistreated by men and was therefore unlikely to betray Ajsa to a man.

"I prefer to avoid the prince," she said vaguely.

Isabella understood. She waited for Ajsa to set down the bucket, then took her hands.

"I must confide in someone, and I feel that I can trust you," she said. "I would prefer to avoid the prince, too, but I cannot rely on my brother to protect me. He is far less fond of me than he seems to be of you." Ajsa started to protest, but Isabella quieted her with a squeeze of her hands. "No, I am not resentful, but it is the truth. And until I can find another protector, Prince John is the only one I have."

Ajsa empathized, for she was also in a similar situation.

"He is a good protector to have," she said. "But he is fickle. His favor shifts with the wind."

"Yes," Isabella agreed, "which is why I am braving this heat." Ajsa's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and the black-haired woman flashed her a conspiratorial smile. "I'm meeting with Robin Hood."

Ajsa was usually intuitive about people, but this time, she was shocked. She stared at Isabella, slightly aghast.

"If your brother were to learn of this..." Ajsa trailed off. "If the prince were to learn of this-"

"I'll be as good as dead," Isabella finished for her. "You will not expose my secret, will you?"

"Of course not," Ajsa assured her. "Women in this world have no allies but each other, so I will keep your secret if you will keep mine."

Isabella smiled brightly. "Thank you. I knew I could trust you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a dashing outlaw to see."

Ajsa watched her walk towards the blacksmith's stall, where Robin indeed awaited her. He appeared to be genuinely happy as he offered her a strawberry, and Isabella was equally happy to accept it.

Granting the couple their privacy, Ajsa went back inside to continue Guy's supper. He had grown tired of mutton, so she was making chicken legs stewed in a sauce of onions, garlic, and spices, served with dumplings and a salad of pickled cucumbers and onions. The dish had sentimental value to Ajsa, for it was the last thing her mother had cooked before her death. It was also one of her childhood favorites.

During her first few months at Locksley Manor, Ajsa had made many foods from Hungary, due partly to homesickness and partly to her unfamiliarity with English cuisine. Gisborne was initially skeptical of the heavily spiced dishes, but he soon warmed up to them, though he still requested the occasional meat pie. On those days, Mary prepared his dinner.

She heard the front door slam shut and Guy's footsteps nearing the kitchen. He stood beside a basket of vegetables, his customary glower clouding his handsome features.

"Bloody hell, woman, how aren't you melting in here? Get away from the hearth, before you collapse of heat stroke."

"Our summers are hotter back home, so I am accustomed to such heat." Ajsa glanced up at him, noting the sheen of sweat on his face. She arched an amused brow. "I am also not wearing layers upon layers of dark clothing. Remove your jerkin, at least."

"Later," muttered Guy. "Prince John wants me to kill my sister."

Her grip on the wooden spoon slackened. "What?"

"He saw Isabella with Robin Hood in a rather...compromising position," said Gisborne. "If the prince is right, then she has betrayed me once again."

"Sir Guy, you are not truly considering murdering your own sister," remarked Ajsa in disbelief.

"She committed treason!" he spat. "And she lied to me. I cannot disobey Prince John, or it'll be my head on the chopping block." Gisborne knelt down beside her by the hearth, the glow of the fire tingeing his skin an orange-bronze color. "And then, when he's gotten rid of me like he did of Vaisey, he'll take you for himself."

Ajsa's hand faltered in its stirring-not because of the threat of becoming the prince's plaything, but because of Guy's concern for her. She tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach.

"You could fake Isabella's death," she suggested. "Or send her away."

"If only it were that simple," he lamented. His hand rose, hesitating, before he tucked a wayward strand of hair behind Ajsa's ear. "I've been ordered to follow Isabella and report her movements to the prince. I have to tell him something, but if I lie to protect her and he finds out, I'll be charged with treason, as well." Leaning forward, he peeked into the pot. "Thank God it's not mutton."

Gisborne stood and watched her poke at the crackling logs in an effort to avoid meeting his gaze. The way he had been looking at her set her off-kilter, and she didn't know how to cope with it.

"I shall return by evening."

He lingered another half a moment, then left through the back door. Ajsa's legs gave out beneath her, and she sat down on the kitchen floor. The lid clattered loudly as she covered the pot with more force than was necessary. Lying down, Ajsa closed her eyes, the cool of the stone a pleasant contrast to the sweltering waves emanating from the hearth.

She remained like that for an hour, periodically checking on the chicken and earning baffled glances from Mary whenever she entered the room. But Ajsa ignored her. For the first time since the debacle in Orosháza, she felt at peace.

#

By late afternoon, the worst of the heat had dissipated, but the well and stream were still dried up. Robin's gang had stolen some of the castle's water barrels for the villagers, but luck was not on their side. While they were distributing the water, Prince John trotted into Locksley.

He had initially offered to share his water with them, but that changed when he glimpsed his insignia on the barrel. Ajsa watched, aghast, as the guards drowned a man in the precious liquid, then tipped over the barrel.

Gisborne returned soon after, sweaty and disheveled. She brought him a goblet of water, waiting for the inevitable tirade to come.

"She called me a louse, Ajsa," he ground out.

"Who did?" she asked, taking the empty cup he thrust in her direction. She refilled it and handed it back to him.

"Isabella," he said impatiently. "Who else?"

"You were spying on her," Ajsa pointed out.

He gave her a hard look. "I wouldn't have needed to spy on her if she'd been loyal to me. Instead she's kissing Robin Hood in meadows and telling him all our plans."

"What plans?" Ajsa asked. Prince John's sudden and short-lived generosity towards the townsfolk had disquieted her, and now she knew why. "Sir Guy, is the prince responsible for this drought?"

"Of course he is," Gisborne said. "It's all part of his goal to get the people of this miserable village to love him. He blocked the overflow chamber at the castle that feeds Locksley's water supply, then intended to swoop in the hero with his own personal stores." Guy scowled in disgust. "It's ridiculous."

"And fruitless," she added. He glanced at her, his brows furrowing. "The outlaws stole some of the prince's barrels. When he found out, he taxed the water. He is now no more a hero than Vaisey was."

Despite his dour mood, Guy roared with laughter.

"I can almost see his outrage. What a pathetic and insufferable man."

"Yes, quite," Ajsa murmured, not sharing his amusement. "You did not kill Isabella, did you?"

"No," he said, sobering instantly. "I offered her a final chance to prove her loyalty to me, but she and Hood knocked me unconscious and-" He broke off with a scowl.

"And what?" she prompted.

"Nothing," he barked, changing the subject. "You'll be pleased to learn that I'm no longer Sheriff. Prince John dismissed me."

"Why would I be pleased about that?"

"You didn't want me to be under the prince's thumb," Gisborne answered. "Well, now I'm not. I'm effectively an outlaw, like Hood." He bowed his head, his hair veiling his face. From his rigid posture, however, it was clear that he was troubled.

"Why did he dismiss you?" she asked softly.

Guy lay down on a bench and rested his hands on his stomach.

"I failed to kill Robin Hood." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, his throat bobbing with the action. "And Isabella," he added acerbically.

"I see."

His eyes opened and oriented on her. "Before you think it, I did not spare their lives intentionally. I'd planned a slow death for them, but Prince John discovered them alive before that could happen." Ajsa's expression remained neutral, and she did not respond, so Guy averted his gaze to the wooden beams crisscrossed above. "I see the villagers have access to water again," he remarked.

"Yes, I heard their cheers," she said. "Was that Robin's doing?"

"Of course it was," he said sourly. "Ever the champion of the people. Even when his life is at stake, he puts them first. But," he mused, his foul temper lifting for a moment, "losing the post of Sheriff was almost worth the indignant fury on the prince's face when Hood escaped."

Ajsa gave a quiet laugh. "Did he whine? I have noticed that he is prone to whining, as though he were a petulant child whose toy has been taken away."

"He didn't whine this time," said Guy, with a grin. Then he sighed. "Is there food?"

"There is. Shall I bring you some?"

But Gisborne was already on his feet, striding into the kitchen. Ajsa followed him, staring at the back of his head while he heaped chicken and dumplings onto a plate and pickled cucumbers into a small bowl.

"There are leaves in your hair."

The wooden spoon froze halfway to the pot. He cleared his throat and said awkwardly, "Like I said, Hood and Isabella knocked me out."

Gisborne walked back into the main room and sat down at the table. Ajsa poured him a goblet of wine.

"Would you like me to remove them?" she asked.

He flashed her a look of scorn as he began to eat.

"If you would be so kind."

Ajsa stood behind him and plucked the dry leaves from his hair. But she did not retreat; she lingered, hesitating only briefly before she combed her fingers through the damp, tangled strands. Gisborne, unaccustomed to such attention, stiffened in mid-chew. His first instinct was to pull away and reprimand her, but he stayed it. After a few seconds, he even relaxed, his dinner forgotten in favor of the gentle tug on his scalp.

"How is the csirke?" she asked.

"The what?"

"The chicken."

"Oh," he muttered. Her tone was so casual that he wondered if she knew the effect her touch was having on him. "It's, uh, good." To support his answer, he took a large bite of the drumstick and speared a few dumplings onto his knife. "Very tender."

"I am glad." Her ministrations continued for an instant longer, then her fingers withdrew. Gisborne felt their loss keenly. "More wine, my lord?"

He looked at his cup, which was still full.

"Not right now."

"Very well," she replied. He was half-expecting her to add a curtsey, as well. "If you need anything, I shall be in the kitchens."

"Ajsa, wait."

"Yes, my lord?"

He set down the drumstick and wiped his hands on a spare cloth.

"Stop calling me that," he commanded, but his tone lacked its usual venom. "Come here. Sit down." She did, observing him patiently and serenely. "Are you hungry?"

"I have eaten."

"Right, well..." He cleared his throat and looked at her. "I wanted to thank you."

"For removing the leaves from your hair?"

"Yes." His lips twitched in amusement. "And for not despising me. I deserve to be hated," Guy said, "especially by you. Yet you mend my clothes and treat my wounds and prepare my meals..."

He wiped his hands again, though they were already clean, and reached for hers. Ajsa's gaze followed the movement, and she tentatively met him halfway. The tips of their fingers touched, and then their palms, as his large, rough hands closed around her much smaller ones.

"You have been my salvation," he confessed softly. "But all I have been is your damnation. Tomorrow I may have to leave Locksley Manor, and if I do, I will be an outlaw, living in the forest to evade the prince's men. That is no life for you, Ajsa. You don't belong here."

"No, I do not," she replied faintly. "But here I am, and here I shall remain."

Guy shook his head. "No. I will take you to the coast tomorrow so that you may return home."

"You are freeing me?" she asked, astounded.

"I am."

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. He could guess the thoughts running through her mind, the doubts about his sincerity, and he offered her a small, shy smile. She dropped her gaze to their joined hands.

"You are freeing me."

"Yes, Ajsa," he affirmed. The first drop of liquid landed on the inside of his wrist, followed by a second and a third. His heart thudded with each splash. "Look at me." Even to his own ears, he sounded breathless.

She obeyed him. Her moss-green eyes were bright with tears, but she was smiling. One of her hands left his to stroke his stubbled cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, her smile growing even sweeter when the thumb of his free hand wiped away her tears. "But I must stay."

"What? No, you must go," he insisted, perplexed.

"I must stay," she repeated, "because you need me." He gasped harshly when she leaned forward and kissed the scar on his cheekbone. "To tend to your injuries, if nothing else."

"I do need you," he confessed, almost desperately. "But I also need you to be happy." She had become so ingrained in his life that his happiness now partly depended on hers.

"When I met you, the urge to inflict pain upon you was strong," she admitted, earning a half-amused and half-reproachful look from Gisborne. "Since then, however, you have improved and have even become tolerable."

"You push your luck, woman," he cautioned her, but they both knew his warning was harmless.

"I do," she agreed, "and with a great deal of enjoyment."

Gisborne ducked his head in an attempt to muffle his chuckle. Ajsa disarmed him in every way-when she angered him, as well as when she soothed him. Like Marian, she could stoke his fire and calm it, too, but unlike Marian, Ajsa had no ulterior motive in doing so. The realization hit him hard, and he glanced at her. She was beautiful; that had been evident from the very beginning, despite her thin, bedraggled state. But she was also deceptively sweet beneath that chilly exterior.

"If you're willing to stay, then I shall not reject you," he said.

"See that you do not," she said gravely. "A woman scorned is a frightening sight to behold."

Gisborne smirked. "Aye, I've no doubt of that, for I have sampled your displeasure already."